


Except on the Mouth

by ajarofgoodthings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Pregnancy, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-10-30 19:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10883310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajarofgoodthings/pseuds/ajarofgoodthings
Summary: Shae tells her she's pregnant.





	1. Intium

__"Start now. Start where you are.  
Start with fear. Start with pain. Start with doubt.  
Start with hands shaking. Start with voice trembling but start.  
Start and don't stop. Start where you are, with what you have.  
Just... start."

 

Shae tells Sansa she’s pregnant.

Sansa’s been married eleven months. For the first six, they had not shared a bed; after their wedding night, Tyrion had never mentioned her carnal duty, had never asked after her virginity - and it had not taken long for her to realize the nature of his relationship with Shae.

She hadn’t cared. Tyrion was kind to her; she found herself believing against all odds that he genuinely cared for her, they had struck an almost-comfortable-not-quite-friendship; she didn’t hate him. But she didn’t want him in her bed; she didn’t want his hands on her, and felt no jealousy at the stolen looks between her handmaiden and lord. Tyrion was her husband only in name, who he was with at the end of the day didn’t matter.

Until five months ago. Until Margaery had married Joffrey and emerged from their bedchamber a Queen - a change that did little to alter her, whom Sansa could not help but believe had been born to the title. Joffrey remained enchanted by her; as enamored as the court, as the city; as Sansa. Sansa did not know the details of what Margaery did to keep his attentions; she did not want to. Margaery had said little on bedroom matters - Sansa knew nothing but the base mechanics of the act, and even that was an abstract thing; but she did know that it would take more than sex to appease a man like Joffrey. She knew that Margaery must be compromising things to keep him happy; Sansa wondered at what evils the other had done behind closed doors. The idea of it made Sansa ache; she’d warned Margaery, warned Lady Olenna - Joffrey was a monster, violent and dangerous, but she’d believed them when they said they could manage him; it just hadn’t occurred to Sansa what of herself Margaery would have to give up to do so. And, until five months ago, Sansa had been too caught up in the idea of the dissipation of her friend, in watching Joffrey looking at Margaery, to catch him watching her, until he made it clear to them all.

“You’ve had every whore in the Seven Kingdoms, Uncle,” he’d started over supper, which they almost always took as a shamble-sick family; the King and his wife, his mother, his brother, his Hand, his Uncles, all steeped in wine and thinly-veiled threats. “But never left behind any bastards. You’ve been married for months, to the prettiest woman in King’s Landing save my Queen - with nothing to show for it. Perhaps -” he’d broken off, lips parting over white teeth in a predatory turn Sansa was familiar with, accustomed to, disgusted by. “Perhaps your cock is broken. Perhaps you need help pumping Lion’s blood in that belly.”

Tywin had been silent. Cersei had smiled, the same sick mess of one caught somewhere between abject horror and irrefutable affection for her son. Jaime had coughed uncomfortably, fingers pulling goblet to his lips to cover. Tommen had been wide-eyed, pupils flicking from Sansa to Margaery. Margaery had stared at Sansa, lips set sharp.

_ I suppose it doesn’t really matter which Lannister puts the baby into you. _

Sansa had felt sick.

“Why the sudden interest in babies and bastards, Your Grace? Are we expecting a Stag?” Tyrion had been civil enough, words stiff but not unkind - but Joffrey had sharpened, sat up, lifted his chin.

“No, not yet, but I assure you, the Queen cannot be sated,” he’d smiled, crude; “It won’t be long,” and the conversation had divulged from there, Margaery still staring at Sansa.

Sansa had been trying to picture it; she’d seen them kiss before, public and for show but with something like affection nonetheless. She’d seen them holding hands, she’d seen Margaery tilt her head just  _ so _ over her cup, looking at her husband in a way that Sansa couldn’t understand. She wondered if Margaery found him attractive; he was handsome, in the most objective of ways - Sansa couldn’t see it anymore herself but she knew she’d thought it once. She knew Joffery was attracted to Margaery - who wouldn’t be? - and she’d heard the end of enough vulgar jokes from him to his men to know more than she’d like about how he wanted her. 

Sansa had sat, half-hearing the horrors out of the King’s mouth, and stared back at Margaery, wondering if the way the girl was looking at her was out of fear for herself, or fear for Sansa.

. .

. .

“Tyrion told me what happened,” Shae had said that night, brushing out Sansa’s hair, the formalities of titles dropped in the development of tenuous companionship and unspoken confirmation of open secret. “You’re not safe,”

“I’ll never be safe,” Sansa had mumbled, the truth of the words no longer a sting, a weight; simply a fact.

“You’d be safer with a baby.”

And Sansa had stared at her, dark eyes and dark hair on pale skin, all of which she had unwittingly allowed herself to find comfort in. Shae was something like a friend.

“Are you telling me to -”

“I tell you to do nothing, my Lady. I am your servant,” Shae’s accent was thick, and warm, and something Sansa found herself always wanting to trust.

_ Don’t trust anyone. Life’s safer that way. _

“But you’d be safer with a baby,” Shae had repeated, and Sansa had felt her cheeks burn.

So their first time was not that night, but the next.

“I’d be safer with a baby,” She’d echoed Shae’s words, and they felt true, and right, as much as they felt wrong and sick - and Tyrion had choked on his wine, sitting across from her with his goblet and book in their shared solar. “That’s what Shae said,” she’d gone on, and he’d coughed again, fist smacking his chest.

He’d looked at her; more directly than he ever had before, and then nodded.

“She said the same to me,” he’d offered, a rueful curve to his mouth. “I assume she was a great deal kinder about it to you,”

Sansa had gotten very, very drunk. It had made it easier; and Sansa had found that it wasn’t awful; it was awkward. Despite the wine she’d felt panicked, and she didn’t want him - but he was kind, and he was gentle. He’d touched her earnestly; he’d played between her legs with his tongue and his fingers, saying it would make it better. She didn’t believe him, not really; but every touch was new, and as long as she pretended it wasn’t him - she’d picked Loras (thought of Margaery’s stare) - and it had only hurt a little when he pressed into her.

It was over quickly. The movement of him inside her didn’t feel as good as his mouth had, but what had been a sharp pinch of pain changed into something she almost liked before he’d grunted, and snapped his hips, and then it was done.

They’d done it once a week, every week, and Shae says it one morning as she’s dressing Sansa.

“You’re pregnant,” it’s not a question; it’s certain, and Sansa’s breath catches hard in the back of her throat.

“What?”

“I know how it looks, my Lady. I know the signs. You’re tired, you’re sore,” her hands drift up, hovering over Sansa’s breasts in gesture, and Sansa’s been tender, but - “You did not bleed last month, and have yet to now,” and she’s right, Sansa realizes.

She’s right, and Sansa smiles.

“Oh,”

“Oh,” Shae echoes, grinning back at her. “Are you happy?”

Sansa considers the question; she remembers Rickon as a baby, remembers his tiny hands and feet, pudgy thighs and arms, round belly. She’d stolen him as often as she could as a child; pretended he was her baby, pretended she was married to a beautiful man who loved her, that she’d given him a son.

This baby will not look like Rickon; and her game of pretend never came true, not even close - but Tyrion does care for her, and she does like him, sometimes, in some ways - and the baby will look like  _ her _ , maybe blonde, maybe with the best of the Lannister looks.

Maybe a dwarf.

She tries to dispel the thought the moment it occurs to her; it’s just as likely that it won’t be - but if it’s a boy, he’ll be Heir to Casterly Rock.

By all rights, he’ll be Heir to Winterfell.

“I’m happy,” Sansa says, soft, and Shae smiles wider, lets her hands rest on Sansa’s stomach, and it’s true.

For a half-glint of a moment, Sansa’s happier than she’s been in years.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sansa tells him, Tyrion cries. Well, not quite; tears don’t touch his cheeks, but his eyes get bright and wet and it’s the most vulnerable Sansa’s ever seen him, gaze flicking between her stomach, still corseted, and her face.

“You’re surprised,” she observes, and he laughs, hands lifting in an almost shrug, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“I am surprised. I thought that - I thought, perhaps, that I - that my -”

“That your cock was broken?” she interrupts, and he laughs again, louder, a sharp sound of shock.

“I’ve never heard you use that sort of language,”

“We’ve made a baby,” Sansa says, half smiles into her cup, (she’s been smiling all day, the feeling so odd it nearly hurts), “I can't quite find the need for - shame, anymore,” and it's not entirely true - she's still  _embarrassed_ , if she thinks about it too much, or under Shae's commentary; but it's not so all-encompassing as it had been. She blushes, she hides her face; but she's not  _afraid_.

“I suppose you’re quite right,” he agrees, grinning himself. “I suppose there’s much that may serve to be different now.”

 

They don’t tell anyone; not for a while, not until Margaery invites Sansa to tea in the gardens and for the first time in a year Sansa finds herself alone with the girl, now woman, now Queen.

“You seem happy,”

It’s said without a hint of jealousy, no accusation, no suspicion; it’s not even a question. Just an observation; the soft brown eyes that carry it are warm, pink lips are smiling, chestnut curls are hanging beautifully over brown and black clad shoulders.

Sansa’s heart pounds hard into her throat as images of contrast flicker through her thoughts.

Margaery on top of her - Margaery’s hands on Sansa’s thighs, mouth on her skin, fingers inside her, tongue on the spot that makes her back arch and her breath stop. They’re all pretend images, but Sansa’s breath shortens as they come to her anyways, looking at the real Margaery before her.

It had been a slow shift; less Loras and more Margaery, when Tyrion touched her. Sansa hadn’t done it actively, hadn’t tried - but thinking about Margaery had made it feel better, and better - until one night it felt so good that she couldn’t stand it; she’d been shamefully loud, hips rocking, and it left her husband with a sort of proudness to him that Shae had laughed about when Sansa had later asked her.

She wonders if Margaery’s ever felt like that before.

“I am happy,” she admits; a mostly-truth - she’s happy in a secret, afraid sort of way; happy, but nervous. Happy, but distrustful. Happy, but standing on the edge of a cliff, heels planted on rock as she wiggles toes in open air, unsure what’s at the bottom and waiting for the next gust of wind.

Margaery smiles only wider, glancing up as a servant approaches with a decanter of Arbor Gold, the pale yellow jewelled bright within the faceted confines of the crystal. There’s a short conversation as Margaery dictates the serving of the afternoon’s courses - the cheese with the pastries, Sansa notes with a smile, remembering another conversation in another garden.

In the moment, and for weeks after, she’d been terrified; but thinking of it now, she finds it perhaps the first moment she felt that she had someone on her side in King’s Landing.

_ Look at her, Grandmother, she’s terrified. _

“Does this happiness have anything to do with your husband?” Margaery ventures once the servant disappears, and Sansa blushes quick and high. Margaery’s smile shifts to a smirk, knowing and threatening and  _ attractive _ . “I thought it may, he’s seemed in much higher spirits himself. Tell me, was I right? Has all his practice made perfect?”

Sansa’s blushes hotter, brings the back of her hand to her cheek as though to cover it, ducking her head.

“Your Grace…”

“Nevermind, nevermind,” Margaery dispels, waving her hand dismissively and leaning forward to rest it on Sansa’s knee. “You haven’t got to tell me. And don’t call me ‘Your Grace’; you know you don’t have to, not you,” Sansa finds herself smiling at her, cheeks still burning, and giving a nod. “But I have to know…” she starts again, trails off, leaves Sansa’s knee cold when she pulls her hand away to top off Sansa’s cup of wine, then holds it out to her. “Is he… proportioned?”

Sansa’s brow knits as she takes the cup, bringing it to her lips and drinking light. She’s only ever gotten drunk to bed Tyrion, and she’d felt less of a need the more they did it - wine makes her feel loose-lipped and out of control. It’s a treacherous feeling, to have her words coming faster than her thoughts, so she sips and set the cup down.

“Proportioned?” She echoes, confused, and Margaery bites her lip, glances away.

“I mean, is he…” Margaery leans forward, lets her voice drop. “He’s very small, you know,” she says it like it’s a secret, and Sansa can’t help but laugh at her.

“Yes, I know,” she replies, still laughing, thinking of her elbow-height husband and how the few times he’s unlaced her dress for her, he’s had to stand on a chair - a situation that embarrassed her the first time, reminded her of the wedding, but has grown to be a secret joke since.

Tyrion is a dwarf. He speaks of it often, like the admittance of it is some sort of armour. The constant mention of it has forced Sansa to be less awkward about it; not entirely, but less, and she’s still not sure of what Margaery’s asking.

“So, is he small  _ everywhere _ ?” She pushes, and Sansa laughs again. She leans forward to match Margaery, lowers her voice.

“Margaery, you know what he looks like,” Margaery rolls her eyes.

“Yes, but -” she breaks off, looks hard at Sansa, eyebrows knit low. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

“Say  _ what _ ?” Margaery’s got a light flush to her cheeks now, and Sansa wants to touch it, wants to see if her skin feels as warm as it looks. Margaery’s blush drifts along her neck; she can’t help but wonder how low it goes.

“I’m asking about his cock, Sansa,” she says abruptly, and Sansa’s eyes snap from where they’d travelled to the deep cut of Margaery’s dress, to her eyes. “Well? Is it small, too?” She asks, and Sansa laughs again, dropping against the back of her chair and pressing her hands to her face as she dissolves into it. “Sansa!” Margaery’s laughing too, even though Sansa thinks her name may be intended as a scold, and Sansa shakes her head, still giggling into her hands.

Fingers close around her wrists, warm and slight, and tug, and Sansa lets her hands be pulled from her face to find Margaery grinning and giggling along with her. “Out with it, I’m desperately curious,”

“Margaery -” Sansa shakes her head, turns her hands to catch them in the girl’s. “I haven’t got anything to compare it to,” she admits with a slight shrug, and Margaery sighs, nods.

“No, of course not,” she squeezes Sansa’s hands and releases them, sitting back and looking away. “Of course not…” her fingers tap on the arm of her chair, and then shoots up straight, looking back to Sansa with a smirk. “Here,” she brings her hands up, two fingers pointed up on each, holding a distance between them. “You tell me to stop when I’m at the right length,” she says, dips her head a little, and Sansa, still trying not to laugh, nods. Margaery’s fingers move slowly, and Sansa does her best to focus even as she feels herself blushing again.

“There, stop,” she dictates, and Margaery does, raises a brow and looks at the space between her fingers, then Sansa.

“ _ Really _ ?” Sansa bites her lip, forehead creasing as she considers.

“I’ve never paid much attention to what I’ve seen, just -” she breaks off, bringing her hand up to close the distance between Margaery's fingers a little more.

“Just what you’ve felt,” Margaery finishes before her, smirking once again, and Sansa dips her head a little, giving a breathless sort of laugh. It’s true, after all; she hasn’t really  _ seen _ it much at all, anyway - they’ve always done it in the dark and Sansa, though she’s needed the wine less, has never quite been sober. Anyway, there’s never been much need for her to see it; he’s always between her legs, on top of her. “He’s as sizeable as any man, then,” Margaery comments with surprise, still considering the space between her fingers.

“Mm,” Sansa hums her agreement, not that she’s got enough knowledge to really  _ agree _ , and sits back, taking her cup.

She’s already said more than she would normally, anyway; she may as well have the wine.

Margaery considers a moment longer, then wiggles her fingers, shrugging as she drops her hands. “Interesting,” she mutters, then looks back to Sansa, and breaks into another smile, watching Sansa drink deep. “More?”

Sansa nods, gives quiet thanks as Margaery fills her cup. “Perhaps if you have enough, you’ll be able to give me the details,” Sansa snorts, wildly unladylike, into her cup.

What details she remembers most vividly are punctuated by the pretend-Margaery she pictures; Sansa doesn’t think there’s enough wine in the world to make her share that.

“Fine, fine,” Margaery gives to her disbelief, sighing. “But I’ll get them out of you eventually -” she breaks off in favour of her own wine, running her thumb along her lower lip to catch the drip of it when she sets her cup down.

Sansa’s wonders if the wine would taste sweeter on pink lips.

“The Lannister Heir will soon be upon us, then,” Margaery gives, grinning. “Perhaps yours and mine will be close in age; they can grow up together - we can raise them as siblings,” she puts her hand out, across the table, catching Sansa’s where it lays against her cup. “As sisters,”

The sentiment, once so comforting, leaves Sansa cold. She does not want Margaery to think of her as a little girl; she does not want her to think of her as a sister. A friend, yes; more than that, but not as a sister.

Sisters don’t wonder at the way the other’s lips taste.

“I’m already pregnant,” Sansa says, the words coming before she means them to; the influence of the wine, and the drive to be more than a child in Margaery’s eyes. She’s a  _ woman _ , and before Sansa can lament the foolish admission, Margaery’s fingers are tighter on her hand, pink mouth open in a perfect ‘O’.

“Sansa…” she trails off, takes a breath, the surprise etches itself into happiness on her features. “Oh, Sansa, that’s wonderful,”

Sansa squeezes her fingers, finds herself beaming back.

“It only takes once, I suppose, but I did not expect you to be quite so progressed with your husband,” Margaery pauses, tongue pressing out over her lips. “You’ve found out what you like, then, I hope?” she adds, both a quip and a question, and Sansa laughs again.

She doesn’t know the last time she laughed this much.

“I did,” she agrees, hand over her mouth, thinking again of the pretend, of the imaginations she’s had at Margaery short of breath, mimicking Sansa’s own whimpers. “I did. I have,” she stops, has a moment of bravery where she brushes her thumb along Margaery’s knuckles. “Have you?” It’s a vulnerable question, but Sansa wants (needs) to know. Does Joffrey make her feel good? Does Joffrey make her feel anything?

Margaery tightens her grip.

“I found out what I like a long time ago,”

“I thought you, and Renly, never -”

“We didn’t,” Margaery smiles, shakes her head. “You don’t always have to  _ have _ something to know you like it,”

So, Sansa’s wondering what it is that Margaery likes when the next question comes to her.

“Does Joffrey know what he likes?” The words are dangerous, suddenly angry in Sansa’s mouth, and Margaery looks away.

“I think Joffrey has always known what he likes,” she starts, and her hand slips from Sansa’s. Immediately she regrets the question, runs her tongue along the backs of her teeth to wipe away the acid of the anger. “Three moons ago, I thought I might be pregnant, but then his Grace...” she stops, eyes flicker just enough to look past Sansa instead of at her. “He’s rough. Many men are. And I never got to find out, not properly,”

“Margaery, I’m so sorry,”

“I may have only been late,” she says, waves the words away and brings her wine to her lips, a fervency to the gulp she takes. “But still...” she trails off, licks her lips, and she’s still not looking at Sansa. “He’s become obsessed with having a son; talks about a nursery full of Princes. Building the Baratheon line with bonnie baby boys. Except, when he talks, they’re all blonde and pale-eyed - he wants to show off his virility, and his name, and his power. He doesn’t seem to realize that blonde will bolster the wrong name, the wrong rumours,” she flashes Sansa dark eyes, downturned lips full of mirth. “He’ll be furious when he finds out his Uncle, the Imp, has succeeded where he has not,”

It sounds like a threat, or maybe a warning, and Sansa stares at her until she sees the hardness of the lines in Margaery’s face.

“So long as he’s not angry with you,” Sansa gives, reaches reflexively for Margery’s hand again before stopping herself, fingers curling back in on her palm. Margaery closes the distance, grips hard, tight.

A lifeline.

“I can handle the king,” she says, and Sansa desperately wants to believe her; she’s done well enough so far - Joffrey is still obsessed with her, bewitched. Everyone, Sansa thinks, save perhaps the Dowager Queen, is. “Enough. Tell me if you want a boy or a girl. And names! I’d guess at a Lannister one, Tywin or Tytos or Tybalt, but Tyrion’s not really that sort of man, is he? Would he let you pick a Stark one? Oh! Have you  _ told  _ Tyrion? You’ve always been so slight - a figure to die for Sansa, really, but you don’t show. When are you expecting?” The grin is back, perhaps less carefree but no less sincere.

Sansa lets herself fall into the conversation. Margaery doesn’t let go of her hand.


End file.
